Black Coffee

Like the coffee grounds you brewed too bitter
your words hit me like a chill within winter;
I could only stop and stare.
The morning sun couldn’t fail to shimmer
but afternoon came and the sky grew dinner;
I couldn’t bring myself to care.

And so I ask you now
as you raise the cup to your face.
Is it hot enough for you?
Was it brewed just to your taste?

The steam comes from the press every morning
like I sigh when the inevitable’s dawning.
You say it’s long in the making,
I say the coffee’s gone cold.
We know this tale’s been told;
it’s not the only thing.

My eyes meet the mist on the lake
and I am wondering what it would take
to pass through the gauze.
The surface shows a reflective veneer,
still until it meets a single tear
taken from a heart unthawed.

The kettle reaches a boil
but I can’t even hear.
The heat is just too much
and the way out is clear.

The cupboard doors opens to china in shards,
fragments of a life that grew too hard;
I should have realised before,
but I wore steam like a veil,
never thinking I’d fail;
I was drifting through false hope.

When you began to leave your mugs unwashed,
and your daylight caffeine went untouched,
perhaps then the illusions faltered,
perhaps my mind had been unfiltered;
but all I could see was that morning light,
now all I can taste is the dawning fight.

Now I make my coffee so weak,
fill it with sugar and with cream.
I don’t want to taste you anymore;
not since you walked out of that door.



Speak to me, for you’re the only one who could.
My wavelength bleeds into your spectrum
and wordlessly I send for you to receive.
These signals are flares beneath night’s facade.

I look into your eyes and echo your gaze;
manifestations of light dancing on your face.

I turn the shadows into sound
and sing as you look around;
the response is harmony
shared sonic symmetry.
This is the chant that shall abound.

Seeds into flowers planted from our tongues;
a chorus of petals painting cathedral walls.
Language is a prison and our voices are the key
but straightjacket alphabets cloak our thoughts within.

Music from our minds can propel us through the breeze,
we’ll thread the calling hymn from within our reverie.

I see your smile without the gift of sight;
register a presence with no spark of light.
I listen with a sixth sense,
the silence breeding suspense,
before I’m awash with your aural might.

Close your eyes and lay back on the ground,
reject every sense except incoming sound.
I will call out for you into the open air,
sing me notes of pleasure, fervour and despair.

Reverberating from me; a promise to always care.

Sleep Beneath Crossroads

The sun sends its light unto where I sleep
beneath a four-spoked post, buried metres deep.
Spare a gaze to the withered white yonder,
far beyond lands that you would dare wander.
Here at the crossroads is where we may meet
removed from the grounds where widows weep.

Spared no cenotaph nor celebration
hidden is the site of my commemoration.
Staked to the stones by seeds of superstition
flowering as fears of a returning apparition.
Unworthy of ceremony and of convocation
my body is a marker of the soil’s desecration.

My waking years rendered me uncharted;
with no change now that I have departed.
The taint of my wickedness must be allayed
though we are all buried to meet with decay.
It’s a blood process, what I have started,
to become disenfranchised and discarded.

Don’t Bring My Body Home

One thousand worlds stare down;
we don’t really matter at all.
But in that moment I could have sworn
we were a microcosm of colliding stars.

Crash against the rocks, exist again as a sea mist.
Pull me from the stream, the water then shall have me.
Don’t bring my body home.

Passing through the centuries;
this Earth imbibes all time.
The ground on which we stand
is saturated with moments.
We don’t really matter at all,
but matter’s not on my mind.

Stand beneath the sun, stain shadows on the stone.
Wrap me up in arms, I shall burn within my blood.
Don’t bring my body home.

Transcending all but time
was a world that mattered not.

Living Gold

Phosphorescent glows in the night,
he absorbs the whole spectrum of light;
a rival to the constellations.
Come lavender sky and morning dew
he rises like the sun renewed;
the solar cycles exaltation.

Bewitched and beguiled,
all before you’re defiled.
There’s something craven in his spellbound love;
he’s a raven feathered like a dove.
He’s the one that the God’s reviled.

He’s living gold,
sold to the highest bidder,
a sinner to behold
and a role to consider.
He’s living gold,
cold to the gentle hand;
a man of control
and bold command.
He’s living gold.

The blood of Bacchus courses his veins;
drunken to the point of divine disdain.
He is a child of cosmic storms.
Aureate shadows thrown from his motion
borrowed hypnosis from waves of the ocean,
synergy within the aura that forms.

He corrupts your mind.
The finest of his kind,
naked on his throne of glittering flesh;
a precious stone among the tarnished rest.
One kiss and you’re entwined.

He’s living gold,
sold to the highest bidder,
a sinner to behold
and a role to consider.
He’s living gold,
cold to the gentle hand;
a man of control
and bold command.
He’s living gold.

He’s got the nectar that the shy boys seek
but he’s a spectre with a sinister streak.
There’s nothing but complications
in his system of temptations.
He’s a strange sensation making proud men weak,
and before your own exploitation,
there’ll be no time to speak.

He’s living gold,
and you are a boy made to be sold.
He won’t do what he’s told.
You wouldn’t dare,
with living gold.


I am not a physicist or a chemist, so I make no claims to have any sort of scientific accuracy in this poem (I mean, art can bend the laws of reality if we want it to…) I’m just somewhat interested in the concept of silicon based life forms, as opposed to carbon. Impossibility or not, this poem toys around with the concept, as well as human limitation. Call it ‘science fiction’.

I’ll burn, I’ll rage,
anything to disengage
with this dying carbon cage.
Displaced, disgraced,
occupying conquered space,
outstripped by inhuman haste.

Hyperion’s brood condemned to govern the skies
with a family tradition of rising to fall.
In this skin we are microcosms of heavens
taking the throne in the celestial hall.

Find new disputes;
another structure to compute;
schools of thought to refute.
Allay mistakes
by redefining fate;
there’s no need to moderate.

The pillars of life became the bars of a cell;
the chains of the orthodox bound us to the wall.
Hearing the cry of the regressive souls,
there’s no choice but to heed the future’s call.

Another transformation
through human exploration;
a silicon creation
waiting for inspiration.

Tar And Paint

This poem looks at the problems of censorship within society and how art can be used as a political tool, also observing what might happen if the art world was appropriated by the establishment as a propaganda machine.

They don’t know the spectrum bleeds
so you’ve gotta keep your canvas clean.
It’s top collar politics
from top dollar heretics
hooked on tax dodging caffeine.

When the gold rush has run dry
pans and paints wither and die.
State sponsored artistry;
blue honoured larceny;
the enslaved artists’ paradigm.

The established hand will dip the brush
into an inkwell of shared blood.
A seasoned corruption
from reasoned instructions.
Finding freer hearts to crush.

Paint a landscape so roseate
something sanctioned and appropriate.
Gild it with a lick of gold,
have nobody sick or cold
as we condemn the dissociate.

Veiled Vilification

In modern politics, we find ourselves confronted by our inability to change things too much. We have the opportunity to vote, but it’s not likely to change anything when the two parties likely to come into power are practically exactly the same. So what do we do when we feel disenfranchised by the official method of democracy? And what are the reactions to this? How are we made to seem like people who don’t deserve a say in this society. This is a rough poem that aims to explore this political phenomenon.

When we’re told it’s outside of our jurisdictions
we will lose our innate inhibition
to disagree with continuity for the sake of continuity,
sacrificing any remainder of fading ingenuity
condemning us to languish in abject perpetuity.

And don’t you know a riot is a gathering of three or four
semantic to turn peaceful protest into something more;
the demonisation of the lowers of this nation.
Eradication for the purpose of gentrification,
throwing us plebeians to disenfranchised obliteration.

The foxes lit the fire to smoke out the rabbit hole;
fangs stained with blood; hearts not quite as coal.
So we run to the peripheries, as outlaws of our energies,
howling the last of lamentation of our dying elegies;
victims on the altar of the unforgiving hegemony.

Austere To The Point Of Extinction

Politicians nowadays, and to an extent have been throughout history, eager to cut programs for arts and humanities in favour of saving money for the reserve of the purely scientific. This is what they call ‘austerity’. This poem centres on just that. What will happen to society if the arts are eradicated? If children aren’t told that they can be artists? We will form into a monolithic society following production based careers only. Everything measured by economic benefit. This is not how we should live; not at all.

Cut my throat and the blood will run a scarlet sun
setting on the deepest dreams of all but some.
Red rain will pollute every river and every tree;
a bloody reminder that we’ll never be free.
The basest artist may well starve and die
but their sanguinary canvas will refuse to lie.

Now we live through a voltaic effulgence
banned from what’s seen as archaic indulgence
and we have found our lives not ours to paint,
like a vast sea stained with a distilled taint.
They constantly discuss notions of efficiency
ignorant to their own soulful deficiency.

My tears fall like watercolours,
as we fill in another asphalt grave.
The petrol black absorbs all colour;
the landscape could not be saved.

Cruelest Hope

This is pathetic. I am pathetic. I am in love.

Like an angel perched atop the greyest cloud,
my heart in it’s hands to which I have avowed.
I promised not to long for joy and love,
lest I displease the holy Gods above.

The scales of judgement offer me no mercy.
My mind is clouded and my view is dirty,
but when I promised that I’d be good and true,
I never anticipated falling in love with you.

Now it’s a story repeated many times before;
we never know what these feelings were for.
But it’s a hot desire replete with adoration
with the underlying coolness of admiration.

Can you tell that I tremble when I talk to you,
balk with humiliation when you leave the room.
But I’m left with such a deceitful possibility
that you might be invested in it for me.
These thoughts are treated with incredulity
but every single day I still hope that you’ll see
that I’m pining so pathetic and obviously,
for you.